Genesis
by dejaceratops
Summary: The knife in his heart twisted sharply at he gazed at the once vibrant and proud man he fell in love with all those years ago. In his place stood a bruised, battered, and broken mass of flesh and emptiness.


This fic is third in my John/Randy series after _Nuclear_ and _Redemption._ Read those first so this makes some sense.

Walking back into the sprawling ranch house in Talladega had been like stepping into a vacuum. The absolute stillness of the place that had once been so full and bursting with warmth and energy left Randy breathless. He was stunned when he opened the door. As he eyed the spacious living room, he looked around, trying to figure out why he felt so panicked. Why the house felt so vacant. He took in the sturdy sofa and two matching loveseats that had been a gift from John's mother. His eyes ran over the beautiful wood armoire that housed the flat screen television and high tech entertainment center as he ran his hand across the wood of the mantelpiece. He paused mid-step as he came to the small, silver picture frame sitting in the center above the fireplace. His brow creased in confusion as he stared, an uneasy feeling creeping up his spine.

_Where the hell…?_

He turned, looking slowly around the space and when his eyes landed on the floor in the middle of the gigantic room, his heart broke.

The picture was crumpled and wrinkled, and the spot next to it on the floor was still damp. Randy could see John in his mind's eye lying in a broken heap on the cream and chocolate rug, staring at the picture of the two of them together until his emotions overwhelmed him. He could see John curl his fists tightly as he tried to rein himself in, unconsciously crushing the photograph in his giant hand. He could even see John gasp in horror as he realized what he'd done and curse himself as he tried to smooth out the wrinkles and creases he'd made. Randy ran his thumb over John's smiling lips in the photograph, not registering the silent tears that dripped onto his own bright grin.

He picked himself off the floor and tenderly tucked the photograph back into the frame. His entire body shook with tension; his shoulders ached with it. While the rest of the house bore no trace of John's pain, he knew there was one room, one place where the gravity of what had happened between the two of them would be excruciatingly evident. He didn't want the visual confirmation of what he'd realized back in St. Louis in Sam's bedroom: that he'd fully and completely broken John. Seeing the truth in front of his eyes was so much different than thinking it in his head. He didn't want to see it. He wasn't ready to see it. But he knew he had to.

He was genuinely shocked to see that the room still had a door. John Cena possessed strength the likes of which no man could even begin to fathom. When distressed, that strength was compounded. Randy was sure that John would've ripped the heavy wood door off its hinges like loose leaf from a notebook and chucked it straight through the wall facing it and into the garden behind their house. The fact that he hadn't made things even worse for Randy. Now he had to physically open the door; he had to purposefully expose himself to the pain he'd caused the man he loved more than himself. He felt his arm tremble as he lifted it to the doorknob, knowing better than to pretend he wasn't afraid. As he turned the doorknob he exhaled quietly, steeling himself for what he thought might be behind the door.

What he saw was worse than anything he'd ever imagined.

John limped back to his dressing room, holding his arm tightly to his chest. He was covered in grime from the ring and the arena floor, his own sweat, and a few specks of saliva that had come flying out of CM Punk's mouth after he'd screamed at John for botching yet another Attitude Adjustment. Even now, the angry Chicagoan stalked after him, wincing in pain at the pain in his back, neck and shoulders and berating him loudly. John didn't really care; he paid Punk no mind until the man crossed the line, the line that anyone and everyone who'd encountered John in the past few days _knew_ not to cross.

Punk crossed it.

And John crashed.

"Who gives a flying fuck if Randy decided he liked fucking Sam more than he liked fucking you? Find another cock to suck and fuck and man up! He. Moved. On. Get the fuck over it already!"

At the mention of Randy's name, John's heart stuttered in his chest. When he heard Punk say that Randy had moved on…that he wanted Sam and not him, his feebly constructed walls tumbled down, and pain and heartbreak crashed over him like tidal waves. Tears spilled down his face as he recalled how long he'd lain on the floor in the living room clutching Randy's photograph, his name like a sacred mantra falling from his lips and into the ether. He'd called Randy's name until he had no voice left and still he repeated it, walking through the house as though blessing it and hoping with every cell in his body that maybe if he said it enough, Randy would come back. When it hadn't worked, John had felt the tiny pieces of himself that had been scattered across the rug in the living room turn to ash, and he'd fled, not knowing that he'd given up his vigil an hour too soon.

He floated through the days afterwards. He had operated completely on instinct, autopilot. When he'd finally managed to shake off the haze he'd been living in, he was in the middle of the ring in an arena in some small Midwestern city, fighting out of a GTS. He'd stayed aware of himself long enough to finish the match before slipping backstage and back into his trance. The next lucid moment he had was of standing over Punk in the ring as he cradled his right shoulder, the referee asking him how he'd managed to botch the move he'd used as his finisher for years. He shook his head and ran his hand over his scalp before slipping out again. So it had gone for nearly a week, John slipping in and out of coherence, and everyone around him saw it. No one had bothered to ask any questions; it was obvious that the John they all knew was nowhere to be found. They had a shell instead, a shell that was slowly starting to crack.

When John realized he'd slipped into his trance again, he was aggravated. It was disorienting to him to know that he ate, slept, worked, _drove_ without being aware of what he was doing. He shook his head to rid himself of the cobwebs in his brain, grateful for the few minutes of awareness he knew he'd have before the depression sucked him in again, and his breath caught in his chest as he took in the sight in front of him.  
Punk was lifted completely off his feet, feet banging on the wall against his back as he fought for air. His mouth worked desperately, and his eyes bugged out of his head, pupils blown. His fists clawed at the tattooed forearm pressed tightly above his Adam's apple, trying desperately to loosen the hold and bring oxygen to his brain. His struggling stopped as his attacker spoke.

"Talk to him like that ever again, and I will feed you your dick and hang you with your intestines. Do you hear me?" Punk nodded frantically, the violence of the words not nearly as daunting as the cool tone and utter promise with which they were delivered. He knew he'd fucked up majorly, and as turned on as he was to have received any attention at all from the gorgeous man, he understood why he was called a predator.

The man was fucking terrifying.

He ran as fast as his legs would carry him when he was finally released. He'd take the time to apologize to Cena after he was sure he hadn't shit himself.

John could hardly believe his eyes. While part of him was thrilled beyond words to see him, to lay eyes upon what he was sure was a deity in mortal form, a major part of him was horrified. He watched as the shoulders he so loved shook, the hard muscles singing with tension and barely restrained rage. A shudder ran straight down John's spine as he heard him growl angrily, the sound both turning him on and scaring the shit out of him. He wanted to grab him and turn him around and kiss him until neither of them could breathe, and he wanted to spin on his heel and run away and keep running until he couldn't run anymore so he wouldn't have to _look_ at him. But he didn't. Instead he found himself repeating his mantra.

"Randy. …_Randy_…"

Randy couldn't take it. He'd been wound too tightly for too long, and he couldn't keep it in anymore. When he'd opened the door to his and John's bedroom, he'd expected to see utter chaos. Destruction. Demolition of catastrophic proportions. Instead he found perfection. Everything was perfect. The bed was still made, pillows still plumped and stacked at the head of the bed. The dressers were all standing on all four of their legs, the drawers pushed in. The closets' doors remained open, the one on the right side of the room completely full while the other stood empty. Not a single item was out of place, and it occurred to Randy that John hadn't even had it in him to _enter_ their bedroom. He couldn't enter their room and know that half of his heart was gone, so he'd left, taking the warmth and energy of the entire house with him. When Randy had seen their room, he'd wanted to cry. He'd wanted to scream and sob and kick and throw and cause all the destruction that he'd assumed John already had. But he'd kept it in, sucking in deep breaths like a drowning man breaking through the surface of the water, and gone straight out to his truck. He'd driven thousands of miles straight to the arena without stopping, bursting through the doors of every locker room, intent on fixing things with John when he'd found him in the hallway being berated by CM Punk.

The knife in his heart twisted sharply at he gazed at the once vibrant and proud man he fell in love with all those years ago. In his place stood a bruised, battered, and broken mass of flesh and emptiness. He watched horrified as John let Punk scold him like a child who'd disobeyed his father and had been about to speak up in John's defense when the slimy little bastard had gone too far. Not only did he cross the line but he'd pissed and spit all over it and scuffed it up with his boots as he did it. After holding in his emotions for so long, he'd finally let some of them go, feeling a sick satisfaction curl in his stomach as he watched Punk fight to breathe. Somewhere deep inside him something cackled and grinned, happy to have this small taste of violence. Of wrath.

It felt good.

It was only when he heard John's shuddered breaths behind him that he came back to himself and let Punk go, focusing on controlling himself enough to turn around and face his greatest mistake. He'd been fine; he had been ready to turn around and act like a grown, rational man when John had said his name like a prayer, an exaltation, and he'd lost it again. He sank to his knees in front of John and buried his face in his lover's skin, sobbing quietly into his stomach.

"Johnny…"

John could feel his tears drip down his nose, and he was sure Randy could feel them landing on the top of his head, but he wasn't certain that either he or Randy cared. As crippling as his own pain was, it was nothing compared to the agony felt at watching his regal, proud lover crumble at his feet and sob. His voice was a balm to his soul and a jab to his pain; hearing that deep, resonant voice call his name again gave John goosebumps but hearing all the sadness in it made him cry harder. He cradled the back of Randy's head in one hand, holding him against his abdomen while the other stroked across his shoulders. It felt so good to touch him again.

He held Randy as he cried, knowing somehow that he might be doing more harm than good to himself. He knew that allowing himself to touch Randy, smell him and hear his voice, would be a death sentence if Randy wasn't there to reconcile with him. He couldn't take being left again, yet he knew that Randy's love for his daughter and desire for her to have everything, including a stable home life with both parents, would outweigh any selfish desire he had to stay with John. The older man could already feel his heart breaking all over again.

"John, let me go."

John began to panic.

"Please. No. I can't. Just…I can't. Not again. Don't do this to me again please, Randy, PLE-"

"JOHN!" Randy squeezed the backs of John's thighs hard, causing the older man to wince. It had hurt, even through his jeans. "I meant let go of my head. I can't breathe."

"Oh! Sorry! I'm sorry!" John quickly released his hold on the back of Randy's head, instead cupping the man's cheeks in his hands and tracing down his face, resting his hands on either side of Randy's neck. Randy just stared up into his eyes, expression unreadable as his lover mapped his face. He saw every bit of sadness John had felt in the past week in his eyes, a dull grey instead of their normal, vibrant blue, and he knew he had to make things right. Or die.

"I'm not a good man."

"That's not true."

"Yes. Yes, it is."

"Randy-"

"Jesus, John, let me talk! …..Please." John bit his lip and forced himself not to say anything as Randy continued. He knew whatever the younger man had to say was very important to him. Randy Orton never said please.

"Despite what you think, I'm _not_ a good man. I'm selfish. Arrogant. Irritable. Aggressive." Randy sighed heavily and rose to his feet. "I'm a jerk. I know that. Sam...when I'm awful to her, she calls me on it. You do too, but…you forgive me. You kiss me and tell me you love me, and you move on. She doesn't. She holds on to her anger. She clings to it. She's wonderful, but she makes me feel like…like a jerk. I can handle that because I am one. But you? God, John, you're perfect. And you make _me_ feel perfect. And I…I never felt like I deserved that. I don't…I don't know how to be perfect, John. I don't know how to be your equal, and that' s _terrifying_ because you deserve someone who can give you what you give them. And I can't." Randy paused to collect himself. The more he spoke, the closer he found himself to hyperventilation, and he couldn't let that happen. He had to get it all out. "When Sam told me that Alanna needed both her parents to be there for her…I saw an out. I saw a way to save you from me. And I took it. …And it was the biggest mistake I've ever made, John." He looked up to see tears in John's eyes, but his expression was unreadable. He wasn't sure whether he was luring John in or pushing him farther away, and the thought made the knife twist the little bit in his chest. But still he powered on. "I don't talk about my emotions much. Some people doubt that I have any emotions at all." He shook his head and laughed darkly. "Someone told me once that I'm as cold blooded as the snake I get my name from…that I don't have a heart. I have a rock."

John winced at the metaphor. He wanted to interrupt and tell Randy how wrong he was, how wrong everyone was about him. But he knew Randy wasn't done talking, and it was a rare thing to get him to talk this much about anything, so he kept his mouth shut, letting Randy continue.

"For a long time…I agreed. Sometimes I still do." He tapped a fist over his chest. "There just might be a rock in here. Hard and cold and…dead. But…John…you…" He slowly reached down and grasped John's right hand. He lifted it to his lips and kissed the palm sweetly before trapping it under his own on his chest. "You draw blood from the stone."

The tears fell freely down John's face. He flexed his hand a little, feeling the firm muscle of Randy's pectoral give beneath his hand. He stared at their hands pressed against Randy's olive green shirt, his own skin pale and sickly-looking next to the dark, golden glow of Randy's. He felt Randy's fingers fold beneath his chin, and he allowed his head to be lifted to meet Randy's gaze. His heart stopped in his chest before lurching into triple time. Randy's eyes held so much emotion, he could barely stand it. He watched as those glittering blue eyes filled with tears, and his heart broke.

"Johnny, I'm so sorry." Randy's voice broke as he spoke, his sentence fractured by the hitch in his voice. He closed his eyes as John reached up with his free hand and wiped away a few stray tears. It felt so good to be touched by him.

"Take me back. Please? Say you'll still marry me. You'll still spend the rest of your life with me and Lanna. And I'll spend every moment of the forever making this up to you." John laughed thickly, his heart soaring.

_Say it, Randy…_

Inside Randy was panicking. John hadn't spoken a word at all, and he was afraid he'd been too late. The knife in his chest sunk in a little deeper.

"Johnny, please." He cupped John's face in his hand and kissed him deeply, pouring every ounce of regret, every apology, every supplication for forgiveness that he could into the other man. He pulled away only after John had whimpered against him, needing to breathe. He kissed both corners of John's mouth gently before pulling back to look into John's eyes. "Johnny, _please_. I need you."

_Say it._

"I love you. God, Johnny, I love you. I love you so much it hurts me. God, _please_."

John's eyes slid closed, his heart soaring. _You said it._

"Don't ever, and I mean _ever_, _EVER_ leave me again. Because I can't fucking breathe without you."  
Randy held his breath, not daring to assume he'd been forgiven that easily.

"….John?"

"No. Not the name I want."

Randy smiled slowly. Soon, as huge grin split his face in half, and John gasped. _He's beautiful._

"Johnny…"

John moaned, happiness flooding every part of him. He sank into Randy, burying his face in his neck and inhaling deeply.

"Take me home? Make me yours?"

"Absolutely." Randy pulled John's head out of the bend of his neck and cradled it in his hands, kissing John's forehead, eyelids, nose, and cheeks before finally kissing his lips. Their kiss was wet and salty from both of their tears, but neither minded.

Randy's head spun as he stood in the hallway kissing John. John soon pulled back and smiled brightly, dimples on proud display. John reached down and grasped Randy's hand tightly. As together they headed back to Randy's truck and back home, Randy felt the knife in his chest slide free.


End file.
